


The Scent of Roses (aka All The Beautiful Things)

by chocolateisgood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Carnival AU, High School AU, M/M, SPN - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, destiel alternate universe, destiel au, sort of, well they're high school aged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateisgood/pseuds/chocolateisgood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the bench sits a boy with blue eyes like azure jewels, mouth stuffed with blue cotton candy, fingers covered in blue sugar crystals that the boy stares at as if they are the world's greatest mystery, brow furrowed beneath mussed black hair.<br/>And Dean can't stop staring at the marking of blue candy above the corner of his upper lip, at the way his eyes are narrowed slightly, can't stop staring at the beautiful boy on the bench as the teacup ride spins and spins behind him and mothers walk by with parades of small children, and suddenly those eyes glance up and meet Dean's and his world feels like it's drowning in that gaze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Roses (aka All The Beautiful Things)

**Author's Note:**

> Aaah okay, so this story is one of my first attempted fanfictions with some semblance of a plot *gasp*, and just be warned, it IS cheesy. I know. I do not have the time to fully edit it and fix it up to how I think it should be, and make it into a proper story, but I've been holding onto it for so long, I just needed to post it somewhere to get feedback. Eventually, I will go back and edit and re post it, and maybe post it on livejournal or something, but for now... this is it! Thanks to Sabrina (randombuffering on tumblr) and Elaine (henryharker on ao3) for all their help, as well, I do appreciate it.

_All The Beautiful Things_

Carnival!verse

 

"All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don’t come back." ~ _The Great Gatsby 2013_

"Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky" ~ _Dust in the Wind,_ Kansas

           

            Dean always secretly liked carnivals-- not that he'd ever admit that, not to anyone, especially his Dad. It's just that in every small town or big city there was always a carnival. It could have been one night a year in the back streets of Kansas or every weekend outside of Chicago. Either way, the smell of popcorn and lull of incessant noise was one of the few consistent comforts he could find in the tumultuous lifestyle the Winchesters led. The fact that they made Sammy laugh the like the kid he was supposed to be helped too. So the years passed in a haze of different schools, tense nights, and crappy motels as John scoured the country in search of his illusive criminal.

*

            Mary Winchester died in a house fire in 1982. Dean remembers the smoke, thick and choking, clouding his vision, but it is the fear that he remembers feeling most acutely, gripping and awful and as wicked as the flickering flames that tore the life from his mother, that swallowed the kind face that sang him to bed every night. He remembers his Dad shoving the bundle of blankets that was Sam into his arms, remembers feeling trapped and helpless because the fire rendered him less-than, without experience and without use, at the mercy of its whims. He ran because it was all he knew how to do, but since that night, he would never run again.

            As Dean fled the burning home, Sammy clutched tightly in his arms, the flames created a new sort of monster in John Winchester.

*

            Dean Winchester woke up one Friday morning to a hot summer day in Some-town, Nowhere. It was a dry sort of day, quiet, with the sun blazing and the motel room in a careful stupor.

            John had stumbled in the night before in a drunken daze, swaying slightly, a bottle of whiskey clutched in one hand while the other twitched by his side. While wasn't the worst of John's drunken rampages Dean had been forced to deal with, it certainly verged on _bad_.

            When dawn breaks the following morning, streaming pale light through thin curtains, it sees the man passed out, fully clothed, on one of the beds, Sam curled up on the other, and Dean stirring groggily on the couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking away the memory of the night before. Not wanting to wake Sam, he shrugs on a jacket, grabs his boots, and closes the door so that the click of the latch is barely audible.

            Sometime between grabbing chips from the vending machine and leaving the drug store, it occurs to him that he is exactly six months away from turning sixteen, a fact he relishes in briefly only because it means he is one step closer to being eighteen, to gaining his freedom from John Winchester's wild goose chase.

*

            The carnival is experiencing a brief lull as Dean arrives that day. That's not to say that it's empty, as nearly all the rides are at least semi-full, but the lines are short like Dean likes them, or else there is nobody waiting at all. He walks up to the ticket counter, throwing a couple of dollar bills and a wink at the bored-looking blond girl behind the counter, and saunters away two minutes later with three extra tickets and a phone number.

            In the very back of the park is the Ferris Wheel, spinning languidly as if even it is affected by the lazy feeling of midday. Dean watches it for a few seconds, then tears his gaze away, focuses on the other rides that are low to the ground and don't have swaying metal boxes that look like bird cages.

            He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns the corner away from the wheel, toward the aisle of tamer rides that leads to the bumper cars, and that's when he stops.

            Because in the midst of the people milling about there is a bench off to the side, and Dean freezes.

            On the bench sits a boy with blue eyes like azure jewels, mouth stuffed with blue cotton candy, fingers covered in blue sugar crystals that the boy stares at as if they are the world's greatest mystery, brow furrowed beneath mussed black hair.

            And Dean can't stop staring at the marking of blue candy above the corner of his upper lip, at the way his eyes are narrowed slightly, can't stop staring at the beautiful boy on the bench as the teacup ride spins and spins behind him and mothers walk by with parades of small children, and suddenly those eyes glance up and meet Dean's and his world feels like it's drowning in that gaze.

            Dean finds the bench getting closer and closer until he realizes that he's actually walking towards the boy and he hasn't turned away yet and the carnival rides around them are all playing different theme music and a child laughs somewhere but all Dean sees is the blue-eyed boy getting closer and closer until he is right in front of him. Somewhere, a whistle blows and a buzzer rings. A pigeon flies away. Dean finds himself pulling up his trademark, cocky grin, though he's not sure it looks so cocky right now, and plopping down next to the boy on the bench, all the while never looking away from those eyes and for all he knows he's still drowning. Dean grabs some of the cotton candy off of the other boy's stick and puts it is his own mouth, tasting the sweetness on his tongue as he watches the boy tilt his head in confusion, a slightly bewildered look coming over his face, but Dean doesn't care that now his brow is furrowed in annoyance because now he's looking at Dean like _he's_ the world's greatest mystery, like he wants to take him apart like a puzzle and then fit him back together and Dean is still drowning- but it feels a bit lighter now.

            "Hi."

            "Hello."

            And holy _shit_ Dean was not prepared for a voice like that, deep and solemn with a hint of roughness, because that voice is _something else_ , and he's not quite sure what _something else_ is just yet but he'll figure it out when he can breathe again.

            The boy frowns slightly. "That was my cotton candy."

            Dean just grins and shrugs, and decides to ignore his comment, because his face just then is really adorable, not that he'd ever admit to thinking that. "Don't care." He finishes the candy and holds out a hand. "Dean Winchester." He surprises himself for a moment. Winchesters, by nature, are not trusting people, and it is rare that they use their real names with anyone but friends and family. Dean always goes with Michael, or Johnny, or something of the sort, never _Dean Winchester_ but there's something about this boy so he figures it's no big deal and honestly he's not quite sure what's going on right now anyways.

            "Castiel," The other boy says after a moment, and when his lips tilt in a small, shy smile, Dean feels like maybe the sun might shine forever. He grasps Dean's hand briefly, pulling away all too quick. Dean imagines that maybe he can feel still his touch lingering on his finger tips.

            The stare at each other for a moment before Dean breaks the silence. "So, you come here often?" Immediately, he winces, because that was a pick up line, and a crappy one at that, and he just flung it at a beautifully shy looking boy in a carnival.

            Castiel simply tilts his head. "Yes, quite often. I haven't seen you before though." He muses, and Dean just shrugs.

            "I'm new in town," he drawls, and new is an understatement because they checked into the motel less than forty-eight hours ago and their bags are still zipped closed, but for a moment he has forgotten about that life, about his father, drunk and out cold, has forgotten about how his little brother is only twelve but has learned to sleep with a pocket knife no more than a foot away from him. He has forgotten about how last night his father shouted at him that a son who acted like Dean never deserved a mother like Mary, and how Dean had just clenched his fists and looked away and tried to ride out the torment silently.

            He has forgotten, for a brief moment, that the world exists beyond the beautiful boy on the bench eating sweet cotton candy while the sun beats down on them both and the Rocking Boat ride echoes with the shouts of people and sways side to side across the way.

            So he smiles at Castiel and asks, "Maybe you could show me around?"

            Castiel pauses for a moment, searching Dean's face briefly and thoroughly, then glances away, and Dean finds himself praying that he'll agree.

            Those wide blue eyes meet his again, and Castiel nods seriously. "Of course." Dean grins widely, green eyes alight with wonder, while Castiel stands up slowly. "Come with me."

*

            Dean's tickets disappear quickly that day- two people use up more of them than one. The rides are rickety and unpolished; they squeak when the boys sit down and the tracks rattle in grumbling compliance when the carts on the coasters move. One ride is painted bright pink, the paint peeling on the corners and giving way to rust, and another is dusted with dirt, but none of it matters because the colors are still vibrant beneath their decay and the air still smells of popcorn and fried food.

            And Dean is still drowning in blue.

            He revels in the small, bemused smile that overcomes Castiel's face when he laughs, at the way his eyes flash and harden in stubbornness as he drags Dean onto the Loop-De-Loop, in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement.

            Little by little, Dean learns about Castiel. For the first hour or so, the boy looks wary and slightly confused and there is a near constant blush on his cheeks, even when the rest of his expression appears annoyed, but slowly, he opens up. Dean learns that Castiel attends private school and when he was five years old his pet guinea pig died of pneumonia; he learns that he was at church less than an hour ago and that when he was little he read the bible for fun but now he is devouring anything written by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Dean learns a million little half-facts that Castiel seems slightly surprised to have revealed afterwards, and it's the first time he's really listened to someone other than Sammy for more than five minutes.

            At one point, Dean slips and finds himself calling the boy "Cas", but as he's about to find a way to cover up his mistake, he notices the way that the corner of Castiel's lips have quirked up slightly, and how there is a slight hopeful expression in those blue eyes that both terrifies and thrills him.

            He decides to use the nickname for the rest of the day, if only to pull up that expression just once more.

*

            Dean finds himself humming Zepplin under his breath as he makes his way back to the motel that evening, noticing the impala's absence in the parking lot and giving an inwards sigh of relief.

            "Hey Sammy," he greets loudly, entering the room, a smile still lingering on his face.

            Sam is lying atop one of the beds, typing rapidly away on the laptop. He glances up briefly at his brother's entry, muttering a quick "hey" in response.

            "Watcha typing there?" Dean flops down on the bed in front of his brother.

            "Stuff." Sam replies flatly, not so much as glancing up from the screen.

            "Yeah, well what kinda stuff?" Dean grins widely at the utter bitch face Sam sends his way as his brother finally pauses in his typing to look up.

            The younger boy frowns, then sighs, starting up his typing again. "It's none of your business Dean."

            The playful expression on Dean's face fades quickly into a hurt that he masks with sternness. "Actually, Sammy, it is my business. Unless it's porn. By all means, keep that to yourself. But I doubt porn requires that much typing."

            Sam gives a small, annoyed huff. The both of them are silent for a few moments, the clicking of rapid typing filling the room.

            "So, where were you today?"

            "None of your business, Sammy," Dean mimics, smirking, then laughs to himself.

            The young boy frowns, brow furrowing as his eyes flit briefly between his screen and his brother. "Record shop?"

            "Nope."

            "Bar?"

            "It was the middle of the day."

            "Never stopped you."

            Dean rolls his eyes. "Good to know my baby brother's got such faith in me."

            "Always."

            "Is that some kind of nerd reference?"

            "Yup."

            Dean grumbles in annoyance, still smiling, and rolls of the bed, lips unconsciously humming the tune of a song under his breath as he ambles over to the crate of soda on top of their mini-fridge.

            "Alright, who is she?"

            Dean freezes, hand poised to open a can of Coke, and turns around to find Sam propped up on his elbows, smirking, a reluctantly amused expression on his face.

            "What?"

            "Dude, you're, like, creepily happy. That only happens when you find a cute chick, and even then it's never... _this_ happy."

            He shrugs. "I can be happy whenever I want."

            Sam snorts. "Okay."

            Dean frowns, grabs a beer from the mini-fridge, and walks away, trying not to think of cotton candy and blue eyes.

*

            They are near the log ride when it happens, and there are water stains on their clothing and on the pavement surrounding them, and Dean is complaining about his leather jacket, because he's honest-to-god mad that some douchebag had just flown by on a log and sprayed water all over him. Suddenly, Castiel's lips part in a grin, blue eyes alight with something that pulls at an odd feeling deep within his chest, and then the boy is laughing, a choked, full-out laugh with red-tinged cheeks and creases around his eyes that sends Dean fumbling for words, and Castiel keeps laughing at Dean's bewildered look as he drags him towards the ride, hands warm on his sides as he carefully removes the jacket and folds it neatly on the wooden barrier before climbing into the next log and dragging Dean with him.

            That's the time when Castiel realizes how beautiful Dean looks when there are water droplets sliding down his eyelashes and dripping down his face, and when Dean realizes that he's never quite felt as at ease, as free, as he does when Castiel is sitting beside him grinning, hand still clasped in his.

*

            Castiel is falling.

           

            He is falling into green eyes that remind him of broken glass littered around carnival grounds at the end of the day when the faded light makes glimmering jewels of them; into freckles that create a sky of constellations on tanned skin. He is falling from whatever lofty perch he had been stuffed in, falling with a speed and potency that astounds him, and he realizes that falling means that the earth will come to greet him eventually but he just can't find the will to save himself, because right now the ground is far and lovely and for the first time in his life he finds dirt under his nails.

 

*

            The carnival quiets down at midnight. The lights on the Ferris Wheel stop flickering and the only music is from a coaster somewhere that someone forgot to shut down. Dean and Castiel are lying down on the edge of the fountain, the ledge wide enough to fit the both of them side by side, and the cool spray brushes at Dean's ankles. The sky is peppered with thousands of stars tonight, pinpricks of light in the dark night, and Dean simply gazes at them, content, for the moment, to marvel at how the world above seems both crowded and vacant at the same time.

            Beside him, Castiel has began to list the constellations, rattling off a constant spiel of gods and heroes and monsters of myth with a sort of reverence. Dean closes his eyes after a while, letting the gravelly sound of his voice wash over him, filling his ears to the brim and invading his mind so that everything sounds of Castiel, and for a moment, he is at peace in a way he never has been before.

            Gradually, he realizes that Castiel's voice has come to a halt, and when he opens his eyes, Castiel has turned towards him. Suddenly he can see each individual black eyelash lining his eyes, and they bore into him with a frightening intensity, but Dean cannot look away because those eyes are brimming with something that he has only seen glimpses of before. He finds that they are inches away now, both turned on their sides, and he wonders at how the reflections of the lights in the fountain seem to catch themselves in Castiel's eyes, at how beautiful the contours of his face are when cast into shadow, at how the pink curve of his lips captures the essence of elegance and his limbs appear to be art forms on their own. He wonders at the feel of Castiel's hand as it brushes against his face, resting softly to cup his cheek, at the how he can feel the other's breath against his skin.

            Castiel murmurs his name, once, reverently, the sound stirring something unfamiliar inside him, and then they are both leaning forwards and suddenly Dean can feel chapped lips pressed against his, warm and soft, and he leans into the kiss, hands rising to rest lightly over Castiel's back.

            There is a reverence in the way Dean's hands roam over Castiel's skin, in the way Castiel shivers at his touch. There is desperation in the way Castiel licks his way into Dean's mouth, murmuring little words softly as he does so, in the way they cling to each other that night, skin slick with the heat of the summer air.

*

            They fit each other, these two lost boys washed ashore in the wake of a hurricane. While one rose the other up, the other was pulling the one back down, until they met in the middle. The middle ground where things linger in waiting, where nothing seems impossible- that is the most dangerous place to be, but somehow, they managed to find a paradise there.

*

            John Winchester is a tornado. There is insanity in his dark eyes, and an eerie calm in the center. As his life was torn away, he grasped the change in atmosphere and churned himself a storm out of the wreckage, and anything that was caught in the shift remained snagged, attached to his swirling disaster.

            When Dean was five, his kindergarten teacher asked his class what their parents' professions were. The girl beside Dean chattered on about her mother being a doctor and saving lives before he finally was able to speak. Solemnly, Dean had relayed to her his father's mission: how John was a Hunter, destroying monsters and protecting people, searching the demon that had killed his mother. A regretful, and slightly confused, expression had come across the teacher's face.

            That was the day Dean figured out that the monsters were fake.

            When he revealed the information to his father, the man had slapped him across the face, handed him his discarded pocket knife, and sent him to bed.

            Now he knows that Bobby Singer, source of all information for his father's hunts, was his mother's brother-in-law, teaches mythology and religion at the local university, and tutors psychology students on the side.

            He knows that the werewolf they were hunting was only a teenager who had cracked under pressure and drug influences alike, and that the witch in Wisconsin was a heartbroken old lady with an affinity for settling suspicion on herself.

            He figures that maybe monsters aren't real, but people aren't much better.

*

            One day, Dean arrives with a streak of red, healed over but slightly swollen, leading from his temple to just below his eye. He can barely meet Castiel's eyes that morning, voice gruff and distant, ashamed. Castiel's brow furrows in concern, one hand reaching up to touch the unblemished skin beside the jagged mark, and at his touch, something within Dean seems to give. His eyes meet Castiel's, revealing depths of darkness within the forests that make up his irises.

            "What happened?" He murmurs, hand trailing down to caress the side of Dean's cheek, thumb rubbing over the skin where the mark ends.

            Dean clears his throat, and opens his mouth to give a spiel about how he slipped and broke a window or something, what he usually tells the girls in his high schools, but instead what comes out is, "My dad was drunk, and... he, he was going to hurt Sammy, and I couldn't let him... and he was so angry, and... h-he threw... I couldn't...." Suddenly, he realizes he is crying, or not crying exactly, so much as full out sobbing, and then Castiel's arms are around him, Dean's muddled words muffled by the other boy's shoulder as he holds onto Castiel as if for dear life.

            "Dean," Castiel whispers as he draws back slightly, leaving a trail of gently kisses along the other's cheek, the salty taste of tears lingering on his lips. Dean is still blubbering nonsense, eyes shut in pain, and it takes Castiel several slow, careful kisses just to slow the frantic quivering of Dean's lips. Gradually, Dean's breathing begins to calm, and he lets himself melt into the feeling of Castiel pressed against him. Castiel murmurs his name between presses of his mouth, and Dean revels in the sound. He realizes that he rather hates his own name, except from when it falls from Castiel's lips.

            Castiel pulls apart, and drags Dean towards the Ferris Wheel. When Dean glances apprehensively at the top, hesitating to step in the car, Castiel grasps his hand and gently, patiently, pulls him forward. As the basket begins to move, he moves his hand to cup the side of Dean's face, peppering the mark with a flurry of kisses that flit lightly over the raw skin.

            He lavishes kisses almost reverently on the torn skin beside Dean's eye, and Dean can just make out murmurs of, "How dare he, how dare he almost take away your eyes. Do you not know, Dean, how beautiful your eyes are? Dean, don't you know..."

            Dean thinks that maybe the Ferris Wheel isn't so bad, not with Castiel's hand clasped in his and those lips against his skin while he drowns forever in blue.

            And then they lose themselves in the feel of each other, and when they reach the very top and a wayward breeze rocks the cart to and fro, Dean forgets to be afraid.

            On the way down, Castiel leans their foreheads together, his blue eyes seeming a shade lighter as they watch Dean's, which are alight with joy he cannot liken to anything but that moment, and the mark is forgotten.

            That's the day Dean learns that not perhaps not everything in life has to be tinged in darkness.

*

            That night, Dean drags Castiel into the impala and drives until there are no lights but the stars and there is no other road but the dirt path they drive on and Led Zepplin features for the crickets.

            There is a clearing beneath the waning moon that seems cut out solely for them, so that is where Dean pulls the car over and rolls down the windows, turning the music up until the empty night air doesn't seem so empty anymore. He fumbles around, intending to climb into the backseat, but then catches sight of Castiel- who is staring though the windshield, eyes trained on the fields of stars, enraptured, half of his face caught in a moonbeam, lips parted slightly in awe. Dean pauses, then smiles softly, unconsciously reaching out a hand to brush Castiel's hair out of his eyes. "Castiel," He murmurs quietly, almost reverently, and suddenly that gaze is trained on him, in all of its intensity and wonder that still catches Dean unaware. Somehow, he catches his breath enough to step out of the car, motioning for Cas to follow.

            It only takes a minute of rummaging through the trunk for him to find the tattered old blanket that Sammy had bought one day for a pick-nick that never happened. He lays it on the dirt a few feet away from the Impala, lowering himself to the ground while dragging Castiel down beside him. The blue-eyed boy about falls into the kiss.

    They part briefly, and Castiel breathes heavily, staring at Dean with an enraptured expression. "Anywhere I go, you go, my dear," he recites quietly, a smile playing at his lips even as a teasing grin spreads across Dean's face, "And whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling."

                "That's ridiculous," Dean replies, and then, solemnly, "You're beautiful."

                And then there are no more words.

*

_I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)_

*

            When Dean arrives at the carnival that Thursday, Castiel is not there. The teacup ride is still trilling along and there are children jogging to and fro but the wooden bench is empty. Dean frowns, and an uneasy feeling rises above the general euphoria that he had been wading in the past few days.

            _He could just be running late._

_He could be buying food._

_He decided to sit somewhere else._

            But somehow Dean knows none of these are true, because this is Castiel, who never seems to follow the normal laws of humanity, and so it doesn't seem right that he would follow the normal human excuses either.

            Even so, Dean buys blue cotton candy and sits, alone, on the bench, and remembers licking the blue crystals off Castiel's lips. When he finishes his cotton candy, he goes to the first coaster ride, then the second, and third, and then to the rocking boat ride. Hours pass as Dean robotically moves through each ride, a schedule the two of them had unknowingly created. There is a pang of hurt that resides within him and never seems to fade, and Castiel never shows up.

            He trudges home that day with half of the days' tickets lying unused in his pocket.

           

            Every day, for seven days, Dean wakes up quietly and travels to the carnival, and eats cotton candy and rides the same rides, and comes home with half of the purchased tickets lying abandoned in his pocket.

*

            On the fifth night, John Winchester announces that they're leaving for Blackwell, Oklahoma in three days' time. He says that there's nothing left for them to find in this town.

*

            On the sixth day, it rains, and the carnival is eerily empty. Dean sits on the bench, and drinks a strong cup of coffee to keep himself awake because he didn't get the chance to sleep the night before. The air has lost its insufferable heat, and he can feel the chill of the rain lingering on his skin.

            Dean doesn't go on any rides that day.

*

            At the end of the seventh day, Dean finds a torn, beaten news paper lying on the empty bench. Some of the pages wander around the grounds, having been tossed away by the wind, and some are crumpled and smudged. Suddenly, a small box in the corner of a page catches Dean's eye. He swallows, hard, and reaches out a hand.

            It's a small article, and there is no picture attached, only a bolded heading and a half a column's worth of information.

            He reads the words Michael Novak. And he reads the words Lucifer and Gabriel.

            And then he reads the word Raphael.

            And then he reads the name Castiel Novak.

            And then he reads the words stabbed, and mauled, and betrayal-

            and death.

            And he sees no more.

*

            Dean stands, and turns away from the carnival, away from the flashing lights and the Ferris Wheel, away from the laughter and chatter of the people and the smell of popcorn and the vendors with sticks of blue cotton candy, away from the fireworks in the distance and the joyous shrieks of children.

            He shrugs his coat tighter around himself.

            He puts his hands in his pockets.

            Dean Winchester leaves the carnival, as the heat of the summer begins to recede to fall, and he never returns.

           

**Author's Note:**

> “Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses” ~This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald.


End file.
